


Broken Butterflies and Crushed Wings

by isnt_it_pretty



Series: Of Broken Hearts and Kindred Spirits [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Consent, Emotions, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Not Between Sylvain and Felix, There will be more tags updated as I edit and remember what I actually wrote, bad coping, it'll get there, kind of, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-20 07:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20671838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isnt_it_pretty/pseuds/isnt_it_pretty
Summary: “Know how you told me about your old friends?” he asks, “the ones you grew up with?”“Yes?” his heart pounds.“Well, I just met them.”-University isn't really what Felix expects, and Sylvain just wants to be himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rodrigue paid for Ingrid to go to school, and you can't convince me otherwise.
> 
> This fic has a pretty big TW for super dubious consent in the second(?) chapter. I'll warn you again in those notes.
> 
> Talk to me @isnt_it_pretty on instragram or Canadeath#1368

It’s their first week of school, and Ingrid and Dimitri are fucking  _ insufferable. _ Felix has already started trying to find a different place to live (not that he can, his name is on the lease with theirs).

They tried dragging him to the Student Union building. Apparently there’s some sort of club fair going on, trying to recruit new students into various activities and sports teams.

He adamantly refused. 

“I’m sure they will be a club even you will be interested in,” Dimitri tells him.

“No.”

“It’ll be a chance to socialize with your peers,” Ingrid tries. “You can’t spend forever locked in your bedroom. You have to make friends eventually.”

“No.”

“Okay, yeah, that one was dead from the start, wasn’t it?” she asks, sighing. 

Felix snorts. “No shit.”

Eventually, they give up and head out on their own, leaving Felix free range of the small, three bedroom house they rented. It isn’t far from the school, close enough to walk in fact. Ingrid and Dimitri seceded the largest bedroom to him, after deciding he was most likely to never leave it. He would have been offended if it wasn’t true. He pretended to be anyways.

Time to kill, Felix decides it's a good time to get some work done. The course load was already ramping up to be much larger than high school, which he anticipated. He pulls out his laptop and settles into a spot on the couch, typing away at his first assignment. Business isn’t really what he was interested in, but his father wanted him to take it. He figures he may as well, until he figures out what he wants to do.

Instead, he finds himself looking through old photos. They’re one of the few things he allows himself to hold onto. His father scanned them a few years ago, and gave him the USB. Felix had made a show of discarding it into a box, along with the hard copies. That night he copied them onto his laptop, and carefully packed the backup into the box.

The photos are old, most dating back to childhood. There’s one of him and Glenn, and Felix wonders what he would be doing, had he not met an untimely end. Would he be at university? Probably, he was always the smart one. Would probably be studying for med school or something. A way to help people.

He was always the better of them.

Surprisingly, it isn’t the photos of he and Glenn that pull at his heart. He misses him, of course, still gets angry and fights with his friends and family over his death, but he’s dead. No amount of pain or grief can bring him back.What hurts more, is revisiting all the things he’d lost.

Photos of the four of them. He, Ingrid, Dimitri, and Sylvain. It’s the redhead that makes his heart pang with sadness. Where was he now? He hadn’t seen him since the accident. He’d tried to of course. Called and texted, even went as far as to visit his house. Apparently, Sylvain just didn’t want to see him.

He still remembers their last conversation. He was angry, frustrated with his own feelings and taking them out on Sylvain. Stupid gay feelings, for a guy who would never feel the same about him. No wonder Sylvain hadn’t wanted to speak to him again. 

It still hurt though, when Sylvain moved without telling any of them. He didn’t even say goodbye, just packed up and left. He had to find out through his father, when Sylvain’s dad mentioned it in passing. 

“He’s going away to school.”

So casually, as if it was normal. For most people, it would have been. But for Sylvain? Seven months before, he had broken most bones than Felix wanted to know about. Spent a week in the ICU. Even before that, Sylvain rarely went to school, prefering to skip with girls and alcohol. He never imagined Sylvain would actually make it into university, or even want to go. 

The trip through sadness and nostalgia was cut short, when Ingrid and Dimitri came back. He could hear them even before they opened the front door, laughing about something. Probably something stupid.

“Felix!” Ingrid calls, not realizing he’s in the room as she steps through the door. 

He makes a noise of recognition, clicking out of his photos (the one he had been staring at was taken two weeks before Glenn died), and opening a half finished assignment. It wasn’t due until Monday, but he may as well work on it, or pretend to.

“I got you a sticker,” she says, walking over the hand it to him. 

He looks up.

The sticker is round, and very obviously rainbow. The letters GSA are printed in black. Ingrid is wearing one on her shirt, as is Dimitri. He feels a flare of annoyance.

“We met a girl named Dorothea,” Ingrid explains, “she was handing them out with one of her friends. She’s the student head for the school’s GSA.”

“So what, am I your token ‘Gay Friend’ now?” he asks, not taking the sticker she’s handing him.

“Of course not!” Dimitri argues. “We just thought it would be nice to support you-”

“I don’t need support.” Maybe it’s because he was looking at pictures of Sylvain that he’s suddenly so angry. Probably. “I’m gay, so what? I don’t need a special club.”

“You could meet somebody,” Ingrid says softly. “That’s all. You could use some friends, other than just us.”

“Just you,” Felix clarifies, ignoring the sad look Dimitri gives him. “I thank you for your concern, but I don’t need friends.” He starts packing up his computer, so he can relocate to his bedroom.

“Yes you do,” Ingrid says, matter of fact. “Also, she invited us to a party on Friday. You’re coming.”

She leaves no room for argument. 

* * *

The party was at a house close by, apparently belonging to a graduate student.

“Hello there!” A red haired boy answers the door. “Good to see you again, Dimitri.”

“You as well Ferdinand,” Dimitri nods, smiling. They probably met at the stupid club fair.

“Please, come in!” he steps aside, allowing the three of them entrance to the home. It’s nice, nicer than theirs at least. It’s actually decorated, although the furniture is in a slightly worse state than theirs. Side effect of wealthy parents Felix supposed. His father and Dimitri’s uncle made sure that the three of them would be comfortable. “Byleth is in the kitchen if you’d like to meet her, although there is no pressure. She will make her rounds soon.” He smiles at Ingrid. “May I take your coat?”

She hands it off to him, making polite conversation as Felix scowls, leaning against a nearby wall.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Ferdinand tells them. “I can show you to the living room, there are more people there.”

They follow him.

The party is apparently already in full swing, since the room is packed with people, talking over the music. At least said music isn’t as loud as to be overwhelming.

“Ingrid! Dimitri!” A girl rushes over to greet them. Her hair is long and brown. Felix supposes he’d find her pretty, if he was interested in women. As it was, her makeup was impeccable. She’s pulling a girl along behind her, purple hair tied back in a high ponytail. “I’m so glad you came!”

“Of course!” Ingrid replies. “This is the friend I told you about, Felix.”

He scowls at the knowledge that they had apparently spoken about him. Maybe he should have gone to that stupid event after all, at least then he’d know what was said.

Dorothea giggles, honest to God fucking giggles. “He really is like a cat.”

Felix tries not to bristle at that. He probably fails. 

“Anyways,” she says, changing the subject. He tries not to feel thankful. “This is my partner, Petra.”

“Hello,” the girl says. Her accent is foreign. “I am pleased to be meeting you. Oh, um, I mean I am pleased to have met you.” She glances at her girlfriend for reassurance. 

“I am pleased to meet you, Darling,” Dorothea says with a fond smile. 

It makes Felix nauseous. 

“Yourself as well,” Dimitri replies. 

Felix doesn’t bother saying anything. In fact, he tunes out the conversation entirely to take in the room. Parties are a bit... overwhelming for him. The noise, the people, to social expectations. It's always been a bit much for him, but he supposes it’s something he’s going to have to get used to it. That doesn’t mean, of course, that he has to like it.

There’s a pink haired girl, drink in hand, engaged in a conversation with a boy who has a  _ horrific _ haircut. It looks like a bowl cut somebody fucked up, and then dyed purple to try and cover it. Next to them, eating from a plate packed with food, is a large blonde boy, a much shorter redhead girl rolls her eyes at him.

A tall boy, black haired who frankly looks like a fucking vampire, is talking to a much shorter girl with white hair. He vaguely hears Dimitri say, “Edelgard? Is that you?” as he walks towards the pair, a big, stupid smile on his stupid ugly face. Idiot.

Another redhead girl is making conversation with a darker skinned brunette boy, both have a drink in their hands. He overhears the name Claude, and assigns it to the boy. Claude laughs, and it sounds fucking  _ musical. _

“There’s a room down the hall,” a voice says from behind him. He jumps, turning to see a mint haired girl looking at him. “For the quieter people. Parties can get overwhelming, and it looks like this isn’t really your speed.”

“I’m fine,” he lies. There is no way he’s going to admit that he’s uncomfortable, even if he knows he looks like a drowning animal. 

She shrugs, “Just an offer. I’m Byleth by the way, I don’t believe we’ve met. New here?” She doesn’t hold out her hand. Odd, but not offensive, at least to him. Touching isn’t something he really enjoys. Hasn’t in years. Hasn’t since-

“Yeah. Felix.”

Byleth opens her mouth, before she’s called over by some other guests. “Hopefully I’ll get a chance to talk to you again.” She smiles, its soft, before heading in the direction of the darker skinned boy and the redhead. “Claude, Annette, I’m glad you could make it.”

He eventually finds a place against a wall, within the room but only on the periphery of the social interaction. More people arrive, and Felix finds the quiet room sounds more and more appealing. Still, he refuses to move.

About an hour later, the doorbell rings again. Byleth goes to answer it this time, telling Ferdinand to sit down, or go try to coax Bernadetta out to meet people, whoever _ that _ is.

He hears two voices, one soft and feminine, the other loud and masculine. 

The girl enters the room first, her hair is an ashy blonde, tied into a side ponytail. 

“Mercedes!” most of the room says excitedly. 

A short, blue haired boy follows her in. Nobody greets him. 

“What, no Sylvain?” Dorothea asks.

Felix almost chokes. He rarely  _ hears _ the name anymore. It’s unspoken that they don’t talk about him, not after everything that happened. Not after he admitted to Dimitri, in the dark of the night, back when they didn’t know if Sylvain would live, that he was, _ is, _ in love with him. He glances to Ingrid and Dimitri now. They’re both looking at him.

Mercedes laughs, just as soft as her voice suggests she would. “No, you know how he gets when a new semester starts.”

“Is he doing alright?” Byleth asks, genuine concern in her voice.

“I don’t think he’s left the room, other than for class this entire week,” the boy shrugged. “But he’ll be fine soon.”

Ingrid is walking towards them, and Felix wants to tell her not to. Wants to say that it’s probably not him. It’s a common enough name, isn’t it? They can’t be going to the same school, it's such a bitch to get in here, Sylvain probably wouldn't have been able too. Besides, when would Sylvain ever pass up on a party? His heart is beating faster than he knows what to do about, his breathing too quick. Part of him hopes, with a desperation he isn’t sure he’s ever felt that this is Sylvain.  _ Their _ Sylvain. But another part of him is absolutely terrified. The last conversation they had three fucking years ago, was a fight. The words keep replying in his mind over and over.  _ Weak. Idiot. _

“I’m sorry,” she says, joining the conversation. He wants to scream. Dimitri is following close behind. Fuck. “Did you say Sylvain?”

“I did,” Mercedes says, apprehensively and questioning. 

“Gautier?” Ingrid asks. There’s barely concealed desperation in her voice.

Felix still hasn’t moved from the wall. 

The blue haired boy creases his eyebrows opens his mouth. Mercedes holds up a hand, not letting him speak. “No,” she says. 

The word feels like a punch in his gut.

“Why do you ask?” 

Ingrid looks so disappointed. Heart broken even.

Dimitri speaks instead. “We just had a friend named Sylvain is all. I’m so sorry to trouble you over nothing.” Always the cordial one. 

There’s an awkward silence in the room, everybody is watching them. It’s odd and tense. 

“Well,” Mercedes smiles again, so soft and kind. “I hope you find him one day.”

“I don’t understand-” Petra starts to say, Dorothea shushes her, and pulls her out of the room.

The blue haired boy looks like he wants to say something again. He doesn’t get the chance.

“Caspar,” Byleth says, drawing his attention. “May I ask for a hand in the kitchen?” She looks around. “Lorenz and Ferdinand too.”

The blue haired boy, Caspar nods and follower her out. As does the guy with  _ the worst _ haircut, who must be named Lorenz, and Ferdinand. 

Ingrid gives him a look that makes him want to disappear. He wonders if it would be socially acceptable to meld into the wall, or maybe fake his own fucking death. At least most people are ignoring him.

They leave soon after, minds spinning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where is this set, you ask. No idea. I refer to Christianity, use a made up university, have an undisclosed drinking age. Who fucking knows at this point?
> 
> But Far more importantly, major trigger warning for super dubious consent! In fact, the only reason I'm not having a rape TW is because he went looking for it in the first place. If that will bother you, skip the second part.

“So,” Caspar says as he opens the door to their dorm room. Going into their third year, they’re still rooming together. It’s nice, familiar.

Sylvain looks up from his laptop, its early still. He expected Byleth’s party to go until at least midnight, but it’s only 10:30.

“How are you feeling?” it's not an unheard of question for Caspar to ask, although normally it means  _ “how likely am I to be woken up by a breakdown tonight”,  _ which is honestly fair. To ask it as soon as he comes home from a party early, is weird. 

“Fine,” he replies, questioningly. “What’s up? You’re back early.”

Caspar makes a noise in response, and busies himself with staring very intently at anywhere but Sylvain.

He closes his laptop, anxiety already bubbling inside him. “Caspar-”

“Mercedes is on her way, she had to say goodbye to Annette. Was easier for me, Linhardt already passed out.”

“And this is relevant information because?”

Caspar reaches over to one of their garbage cans, and dumps the contents (mostly paper) into their other. He hands the now empty bin to Sylvain.

“In case you throw up,” he says, as if that explains literally anything.

“Thanks, but I’m not nauseous.”

“You will be,” he sighs, and sits down on his bed. He lets his head fall into his hands.

Sylvain is worried now. “Did something happen? Is everybody okay?” Anxiety twists within him. “Holding off on telling me is just going to make it worse. So spit it out before I actually  _ do _ vomit.” He puts the garbage can down. “And I’ll make sure it's on your bed.”

“Are you threatening to vomit on me?” Caspar asks, sounding honestly offended. 

Sylvain glares.

“Fine! Fine.” He runs a hand through his short hair. Two years of friendship and Sylvain still doesn’t know how he manages to keep it blue. At this point he wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Caspar had some weird genetic deformity that made his hair grow that colour, or something. He’d have to ask Linhardt if it’s even possible. Of course, it’s far more likely that he just mixed dye in with his - honestly overpriced - colour-safe shampoo, thus re dying his hair basically everyday. “Know how you told me about your old friends?” he asks, “the ones you grew up with?”

“Yes?” his heart pounds. 

“Well, I just met them.”

The world feels like it tilts. No wonder Caspar gave him the garbage can, he does feel like he’s going to be sick.

It’s stupid really, how he thought he could run from his life. As if everything would be okay, as if he could avoid living that fucking lie. Of course, his fate just found him. It always would.

“Mercedes told them it wasn’t you when they asked,” he explained. “But, they go to the same school. They’re going to find out eventually. Byleth told us not to tell them anything, especially not that you’re, you know.” He won’t use the word gay, knows it would set Sylvain off, especially now. 

Yeah, he’s gonna vomit.

By the time Mercedes gets to their room, it smells of bile. He’s on the floor, tears running down his face. He’s clutching the garbage can between his legs.

“Sylvain?” she says softly, crouching next to him. “It’ll be okay. I promise-”

“No,” he denies. “No it won’t be Mercedes. I was a fool to ever think this could work,” his breath is shaky as he tries to get it under control. “They’re going to find out. They’re going to know it’s me and they’re going to find out everything. Too many people know, it’s not a secret when so many do. They’re going to find out and tell my parents and I’ll lose everything. They’ll make me move home, and God knows what they’ll do.” 

“You may not even run into them,” Caspar tries to reason. “Garreg Mach is a big school, and they’re first years in completely different majors from you. I bet there’s tons of students you’ve never seen. They don’t even live on campus.”

He shakes his head. “They’ll find out. Ingrid first probably. She’ll look through student emails, or class listings, or-”

“We’ll deal with that later, for now, just breathe.”

He lets them comfort him. Knows that Mercedes is thinking something Caspar isn’t. Knows she’s thinking of the letters carved into his skin, scarred over now. The name Felix, forever immortalized on his body like a promise, or a curse. No wonder fate is following him, he never really let it go.

* * *

He stays in his room all Saturday, doesn’t even get out of bed until Dorothea brings him food and tells him to get dressed, even if it’s just to get back into bed again.

Its evening. Mercedes offered to stay with him but he turned her away, promising he’s just going to do homework. Told Caspar the same thing when he said Linhardt wanted to hang out. He lied to both of them.

He debates putting on eyeliner for a moment, decides he doesn’t want to if he’s going to do this. It’s been awhile, but he may as well get used to it. This is going to be his life again pretty soon.

At least his good club clothing still fits. It makes the entire thing easier, which honestly may not be a good thing.

Nobody he knows sees him leave. He doesn't think he could get away with it if they did.

The club isn’t far away, it’s known for dancing and cheap alcohol, as far as clubs go. He stops by a liquor store on the way anyways, picks up the smallest bottle of vodka they have (quarter pint). He drinks it in the parking lot, and tosses it in a recycling bin. They aren’t allowed to keep alcohol in their dorms.

He had enough cash on him to get in, and to buy enough drinks to get himself suitably smashed. Maybe if he’d drunk enough, fucking a girl won’t make his skin crawl in the way only women can.

The music is loud, the bartender is nice. He flirts with her, false words slipping from his lips with years of practice. He tries to ignore the nausea as he does. He drinks, and drinks. Tries to find somebody to draw his attention, a girl who’ll be willing to hook up. If she wants something more after, maybe he’d give it. He could pretend to love her. After all, his parents pretended to love him his entire life, so it can’t be that hard.

He has another shot, lost count of them awhile ago. He runs out of the money he brought, so we opens a tab on his credit card. He has enough money in to pay it off in full, so he isn’t worried. 

A girl decides to flirt with him, he buys her a drink and feels her touch his thighs, hands like spiders across his skin. Hungry, looking to feast. Does she know who he is? Has she heard the rumors that he’s to inherit more money than he knows what to do with? Does she want him for that too?

He drinks more, trying to drown the buzzing of his mind with the buzz of alcohol. It doesn’t burn anymore, and he isn’t sure whether or not he misses the feeling. Probably does, who wouldn’t? 

The bar tender isn’t paying attention to him anymore, which is good. It’s a Saturday night, she probably doesn’t even realize how much he’s drunk.

The girl drags him outside. “For a smoke,” she says, smiling mischievously. He wavers, isn’t sure he can walk. The world is blurry, unreal. As unreal as he is. Everything about him is a lie, fake. A way to survive in a world where everybody wants to swallow him whole, devour him, this woman included.

The bouncer nods at them. Reminds them that they need a stamp if they want to get back in. The air outside feels different, wrong maybe. He can’t place it. He can’t think.

She pulls him into an alleyway, there’s nobody nearby. She’s touching him, it burns like fire, like she’s tearing him apart to get what she wants. His mind can’t really comprehend what’s happening, the world is spinning. He hasn’t vomited yet, which he supposes is good.

She pulls at his pants, drops to her knees in front of him. He barely feels it through the haze. If he could think, he’d be surprised he could even get it up with this much alcohol in his system.

The sex is quick, disgusting. He feels like he’s dying with her lips against his. Somewhere in his mind he tries to think of Felix, even drunk he pushes it away. He’s trying to escape that, him. Trying to remember how to be a puppet, how to let them do what they want, even if it makes him want to boil his flesh. He has no choice. He’s always had a part to play in this twisted fate, and this is it. Forever a liar.

The girl finishes, smiles and asks if she can have his number. He fumbles with his pants and ignores her.

He thinks it’s time to drink some more.

His last conscious thought is that Mercedes is going to fucking murder him.

* * *

He comes to consciousness slowly, senses returning one by one.

Pain. His shoulder is killing him, overpowering everything else. He wonders, briefly, where his brace is. He’ll probably need to wear it today, which sucks. It is what it is though, it’s his own damn fault.

Sound, a steady beeping, footsteps. Humming, a soft song he recognizes., the clicking of computer keys. 

Scent. Antiseptic, bleach, floral. 

Touch. Pushing past the pain, a bed beneath him, rough blankets. A bed.

Taste. His throat his dry, it tastes of leftover vomit.

His eyes open last, blurred. The lights are bright, it takes a moment to adjust.

He doesn’t remember anything, doesn’t know where he is or how he got there. Mercedes is next to him in a chair, her laptop across her legs. She’s humming, typing away.

The room is white, a TV on the wall in front of him. It isn’t on. The table next to him is light wood, there’s a vase. More than one actually. Its overflowing with flowers and cards.

An IV is in his arm. A hospital then.

Mercedes glances at him, looking back to her laptop before her brain processes what she sees. She looks up again, and smiles softly in a way that has always made him feel safe.

He loves her. Not in a romantic way, but in a way that makes everything else seem okay. 

“Welcome back,” she said gently, closing her computer. “How are you feeling?”

“Terrible,” he replies, trying to push past the grogginess. 

“Sounds about right,” she replies, reaching to press the Call button for a nurse. 

He licks his lips, they’re dry. “What happened?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. You said you were fine, but I got a call just passed midnight from the hospital. Your blood alcohol level was 0.32. Apparently somebody found you unconscious somewhere, and called an ambulance.”

Alcohol poisoning. He’s suddenly very happy that he made Mercedes his emergency contact. His parents would still find out, but it’d take some time. He could come up with a feasible excuse by then. It's always been easy to lie to them, they’re still so desperate for everything to be okay, to be  _ normal. _

“Sylvain-”

“Don’t,” he says, quietly. “Please, don’t.”

“I’m worried about you,” she replies anyways. “You’ve been doing so well, and then-”

“Please Mercedes,” he says again. “Please,” quieter. He closes his eyes. He can’t do this. He can’t let her be worried when all it will do it hurt her. He’s on a steady decline.

Being dead would be better than living this fucking lie.

The nurse comes in, Mercedes excuses herself.

They do a psych eval, he guesses it was Mercedes who gave him the idea. He lies through it, lets them tell him to be more careful next time. It really was an accident. 

He’s discharged that night. It’s Monday, both he and Mercedes missed class. He was out for an entire day. He tries to apologize, she won’t hear it.

She follows him into his room, puts the vases of flowers in it, much to Caspar’s dismay. 

“You’re lucky I’m not allergic,” he says, as if Sylvain didn’t see the ‘Get Well Soon’ card, signed with his name and Linhardt’s, shoved in a bouquet of lilies. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter, but it felt natural to end it there.
> 
> Mercedes is just really, really protective of Sylvain, okay?

There’s a knock on the door. Felix ignores it. If it’s important, one of the others will answer it. He’s getting dressed to go to the gym, it's Tuesday and he’s already missed yesterday. Going everyday doesn’t seem like it’ll be an option, but he can at least go every two days. 

He hears the door open, but doesn’t bother straining his hearing to know who’s there.

“Felix, Ingrid!” Dimitri calls, “Can you come here for a moment?” 

No, he wants to reply. He knows Ingrid is busy too. She’s trying to hand out resumes. 

_ “Really Ingrid, you don’t need to. We’ll take care of everything.” _

_ “I can’t let you do that Dimitri.” _

_ “Didn’t my father gift you all of Glenn’s college savings?” _

_ “It feels wrong to use it.” _

Ingrid’s door opens. “Is it important?” she responds, an edge of agitation to her voice..

“Very.”

Ugh, he groans. Time to see whatever the fuck is up.

He slipped on his shirt, and headed out of his room.

“Can I get you a drink or anything?” he hears Ingrid ask from the living room. 

“No, thank you. I likely won’t be here long.” He recognizes the voice, but from where, he can’t place. 

There’s a young woman sitting on their couch, ash blonde hair. Ingrid is already sitting across from her, Dimitri on the other end of the same couch as her. A socially acceptable amount of space between all three of them. She looks uncomfortable.

“Mercedes, right?” he asks, recalling her from Byleth’s party on Friday. 

She looks up at him, and nods. Her lips are pursed.

“What’s this about?” he crosses his arms and leans against the wall. He may only be an inch or so taller than her, but he plans to squeeze all the intimidation he can from it.

She doesn’t seem to care.

“Well, Ms...?” Dimitri asks.

“Mercedes is fine.”

“Well, Mercedes, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Stupid polite, as always. Asshole.

She takes a deep breath. “I’m the friend of Sylvain’s.”

The sentence is enough to give them all pause. 

“Sylvain?” Ingrid asks. She’s hoping, he can tell.

“Gautier, yes.” He remembers her denial at the party, and wonders what changed.

“I knew it!” Ingrid yells, “I was trying to-”

“I know you were,” Mercedes cuts her off. “And I am so sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you have to stop.”

“I’m sorry?” Ingrid asked, her voice has an edge to it. She’s angry. “What do you mean  _ I _ have to stop. He’s been our friend-”

“He  _ was _ your friend,” Mercedes clarified. She sounds... sad. “I would want nothing more than to have you all reconnect, but I can’t. Sylvain  _ can’t _ .”

“Why?” Dimitri is calm, manages to talk before Ingrid can explode. Felix is still reeling.

Mercedes bites her lip, and lets out a breath. “Because I don’t know what he’d do if you try.”

It’s frustratingly vague. 

“What the fuck does that even  _ mean _ ?” Ingrid demands. She looks like she’s caught halfway through storming out, and wanting to hear what the actual fuck Mercedes is talking about.

“I have spent hours agonizing over whether I should do this. Tell you this. I know he’ll be angry when he friends out,” she takes a deep breath. 

For whatever reason, Felix keeps thinking she’ll snap at them. She doesn’t, but the exchange seems to be hard on her in a different way. He isn’t sure he cares.

She continues. “The reason I am here is because I have a genuine concern for his safety.”

“Safety?” Dimitri starts, “What do you mean safety?”

“Exactly what I say,” she sighs, looking down. “I spend Sunday and Monday in the hospital with him, after he drank himself to the point of alcohol poisoning.” She looks to Ingrid, meeting her angry gaze. “Don’t you understand? If you keep pushing,  _ I don’t know what he’ll do. _ You. Have. To. Stop.”

“I don’t understand.” Felix doesn't know which of them said it. His mind is a storm, connecting dots he didn’t know were there. Every smile, every off the cuff joke they all ignored. Every time he skipped class, barely spoke to anybody, sequestered himself in his bedroom. The-

Ingrid is yelling, he cuts her off.

“The accident.”

Everybody looks to him. He uncrosses his arms, looks straight at Mercedes. Tries to push past the sudden feeling of fear because he  _ should have known. _ They all should have, they should have seen it, should have stepped in, helped him-

“It wasn’t an accident, was it?” he asks. He isn’t sure she’ll answer, but she holds his gaze.

Dimitri looks like he’s about to protest, because of fucking course he is. Because he never could deal with things not being about him, with anybody else having problems. It was always about  _ his  _ parents,  _ his _ loss,  _ his _ grief. 

“No,” she confirms, she sounds so sad, and it suddenly feels like Felix is drowning. Feels like everything he ever felt for Sylvain is bubbling up from where he tried to ignore it. “No, it wasn’t.”

He thinks that this must be what dying feels like. He remembers the punch in his gut when Glenn died, remembers how to felt to be told that there was an accident. Remembers when his father sat him down and told him the same thing of Sylvain. When he saw him in the hospital, tubes and casts, and a future that could have been but never was. 

He didn’t know. He didn’t even think about it. Annoying Sylvain, stupid Sylvain,  _ frustratingly loved. _ He should have seen it.

He’s reeling, doesn’t even realize his legs gave out, until he looks up to see Dimitri holding out his hand. They help him stand, Ingrid on his other side, and walk him to a chair. He’s shaking, can barely hear what’s happening.

“I’m sorry,” Mercedes tells them. “I truly am. I know you love him, in your own ways, but you have to understand. He can’t.”

“Please, explain,” Dimitri begs, a shaking hand on Felix’s arm. 

She bites the inside of her mouth, and speaks. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’ve already spilled enough of his secrets I can’t tell you more. Not things told to me in confidence, and me alone. But please,” she’s begging them, outright begging them, “stop digging. Stop looking. Stop trying to have something that you can’t. Just let him go, let him  _ live. _ Because otherwise, I don’t think he will.”

She lets it sink, tries to convey the seriousness of her plead. 

Nobody knows what to say, the tension is thick enough it could be cut with a knife. It’s too much. Felix can’t handle it.

Mercedes excuses herself, and leaves before they can press her for more answers to questions they didn’t know they had..

Ingrid is angry, Dimitri is shocked, and Felix? Felix is  _ destroyed. _

He does the only thing he can, the only thing he ever learned how to do. He shakes off Ingrid and Dimitri, and he runs.

He rips through the streets, everything overflowing at once. Memories of Sylvain, laughing, always happy. How he looked when Miklan got kicked out, how everything started changing. Glenn died and he was so wrapped up in his own grief. He was cruel and terrible and the last thing he told Sylvain before he  _ tried to kill himself _ was that he was useless, weak.

It was his fault. It was all his fault. Even now as he stops, gasping for breath, it’s his fault. 

Why does everything he touch turn to ash?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the gay shit you've all wanted. I hope this makes up for last chapter. Thank you all so much for your reviews, they've all been great.
> 
> Also I lied, there's going to be five chapters, not four. The next won't be nearly as fucking long as this one is.

It's in a fit of desperation that he seeks out Mercedes. 

A week has passed, and try as he might Felix can’t just let it go. Not when he is finally beginning to understand. He never knew Sylvain, not really. Not like he thought he did. He knew the parts Sylvain wanted him to see. Ingrid and DImitri have fought over it, and Felix has mostly tried to stay out of it. They were never as close to him anyways. 

“Mercedes.” Felix catches her outside Annette’s dorm. He’s been waiting for her, desperate.

She jumps, looking to see him.

He doesn’t expect her to recognize him immediately, but she does.

“Felix,” she replies, flat and stoic, but somehow still soft. 

He wants to cry, curses silently at himself. He’s cried enough. He’s a weak idiot, a fool.

“I need to see him,” he’s tried to find him, but they don't keep that as public information. He can find Sylvain’s name, he even saw a picture, but he has no idea where to find him. The only reason he can find Mercedes is because he knows Annette. “Please.” It almost hurts to beg, but not as much as everything else does. Not as much as knowing the last thing he said to Sylvain hurt him.

“Felix-” she starts, but he cuts her off.

“ _ Please _ , Mercedes,” he honest to god begs. “Please. I need... the last thing I said to him-”

“I know,” she replies, taking a step towards him. “I know everything.”

Everything. He can't decide whether he's thankful or not. “I hurt him,” he says. “I hurt him and then he- it’s my fault Mercedes, I have to make it right. I-” he’s babbling, probably about to cry despite his best efforts.

“No,” she shakes her head, lays a hand on his shoulders. “There’s a lot more at play then you know. You hurt him, yes, but it wasn’t your fault. None of this is. There’s things you don’t know that affected this.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Then let him!” He’s heart broken, every piece of him shattered. Even after all this time, he still hasn’t put himself back together. It’s an old wound, one he thought was healed, but it wasn’t. It’s still raw, bleeding and new. Festering at the edges and clawing itself into him like a disease. “I just want to make this right.”

She’s looking at him, and there’s something in her gaze he can’t determine. She’s evaluating him, gazing passed his walls and defenses, through the crack this mess has left. It's so rare to see him vulnerable, refuses to let himself be, but this situation has him reeling. Tail spinning into a nightmare that he can’t get out of, and so he lets himself be vulnerable. Lets her see.

“You love him.” It isn’t a question. 

He answers it anyways. “Yes.” His throat is dry, pained at the admission. 

He expects her to turn him away, tell him Sylvain is better off without him. He wouldn’t blame her, it’s probably true. All he ever does is hurt people, destroy and destroy, never building, never creating. Never anything but the darkness that rips into people like a beast and drags their insides out, tongue lashing with words that are meant to protect him, but only ruin. How many people did he hurt? How many others lay away thinking of the things he said because he’s  _ scared.  _ He’s fucking terrified and he’s never had the strength to admit it. Never let himself be anything but strong, anything but the villain. This isn’t his story, he isn’t a hero from the fantasy novels Ingrid loves so dearly. He’s a storm. A hurricane or tornado, suddenly there, ruining the things people have spent their lives building, and then disappearing again into nothing. A forest fire, out of control, burning homes and lives to ash. 

Sylvain has always been his biggest victim.

“Okay,” she says.

He freezes, thoughts still swirling. “I-What?”

“Okay,” she repeats again, more firmly this time. She cuts through everything, like a lighthouse in a storm, sea raging, boat threatening to crash on the rocks and drown him. She’s holding out a hand, leading him to shore, a place where he may have a chance at redemption, however small it may be.

“Come with me.”

He wasn’t expecting this. Wasn't expecting this plea to work, to go see Sylvain  _ now. _ What will he say? What _ is  _ there to say?

They walk in silence, she leads him to a red brick building. One of the residences. 

She lets him follow her into the common room. He recognizes a few of the people there.

“Mercedes?” Dorothea asks, uncertain. “What are you-”

“He wants to see Sylvain,” she replies.

“But-”

Mercedes shakes her head. There’s something silent exchanged between them.

Dorothea stands, walks over until she’s glaring Felix in the eye. “If you hurt him, I swear to God I  _ will _ end you.”

In that moment, he is absolutely positive she means it.

Mercedes is the one that knocks on the door. Caspar answers.

“Mercedes, what’s up?” He catches a look at Felix. “What’s-”

“Caspar,” she says it so softly. “Can you go to the common room please?”

He glares at Felix, and he can’t help but feel he deserves it. He looks back to Mercedes and whispers. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

She nods, “so do I.”

He turns back into the room. “Hey Sylvain,” there’s no reply. “Sylvain!” louder this time.

“Hm?” Its distracted, but Felix knows it. Knows the voice so intimately, had replayed the sound of it in his mind for years. “Sorry, music. What’s up?”

“I’m headed out for a bit. Mercedes wants to talk to you.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply before leaving. 

Mercedes holds a hand to Felix, telling him to wait. His breath is picking up, and isn’t sure he can do this.

“Sylvain,” she says, stepping into the room. 

Felix can see her, but not him. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe.

“There’s somebody who wants to see you,” she starts. He lets her pull him into the room.

Sylvain is on his bed, already in his pajamas. Has he even gotten changed today? His hair is longer, but not by much. He looks so similar.

His breath catches, he thinks Sylvain’s does too.

“F-Felix,” he stutters out. He’s shaking, Felix notices. 

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound casual. Trying to sound as if his heart isn't being ripped out of his chest.

He doesn’t noticed Mercedes leave, nor the door closing behind her.

“What are you-”

“I had to see you,” he explains. He crosses his arms, a defensive habit he never quite managed to kick. “I just- I had to-”

It’s awkward, he isn’t sure what to say. Doesn’t think Sylvain knows either.

He keeps repeating the sounds of slurs from Sylvain’s lips in his mind. Keeps thinking of the silent confession in Ingrid’s bedroom. Of the fear, of the heart break. Grieving for something that never was, and never could be.

Nothing about that has changed.

“You-” he tries to say. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “I never got a chance to, you know, apologize, for what I said to you.”

Sylvain blinks, and Felix wonders if he forgot their last conversation. Forgot like Felix never could.

“I-, no.” Sylvain says. “No, you were right, you don’t need to-”

“I wasn’t,” Felix says, he can feel his resolve weakening, the dam breaking. He’s already so vulnerable (he  _ hates _ being vulnerable, but maybe he can be, for Sylvain). “I was angry. Heart broken. Lashing  _ out  _ when really I was lashing  _ in. _ Trying to be angry at you, instead of myself. I never should have said things that weren’t true. Especially not to you.”

“Angry at yourself?” Whatever Sylvain was feeling, it was disappearing in the face of Felix’s problems. It had always been his habit, ignoring himself for the sake of others. “But you-”

“This isn’t about me,” he says. “This is about you.” Like that, everything floods from him. “About you and your stupid arrogent mask, always hiding what’s truly wrong behind a joke and smile. Always laughing when we all knew it was fake, but never questioned. You tried to pull us all out of the depths of misery and grief, but we never did the same for you. We left you. Abandoned you to your fate instead of fighting to push past your walls, the way you always have with us.” He feels like he’s drowning, but if this is the last he ever sees of Sylvain, he has to say it. “The accident. We should have known.  _ I  _ should have known. Should have seen it coming and  _ helped _ you, instead of letting you go. Letting you hurt yourself, and keep hurting yourself and-” he’s crying, tears falling like they haven’t since Glenn died. Fuck. “I have grieved you, everyday. I wake up, and remember that you’re not here, you’re not with me, and it  _ hurts _ . I’m living with Dimitri of all fucking people and it should be  _ you. _ It’s always been  _ you. _ ”

It sounds too much like the love confession it is, barely hidden beneath the surface. He expects Sylvain to freak, to kick him out. Not to abruptly stand and pull him into a hug, pressing his face into Felix’s hair. 

“No,” he says, voice shaking, “No. It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault. I- what happened, it wasn’t on you. I promise. I just, I couldn’t- I’m sorry.” His voice shakes. “I still can’t. But it isn’t your fault. I-” he cuts himself off, and Felix isn’t sure what he was about to say.

Fuck it, he thinks. If this is goodbye, if this is the last time he’ll ever see those hazel eyes, he may as well make it worth it.

Felix reaches up, and pulls against Sylvain’s collar. He moves his face from his hair until their foreheads touch. Sylvian’s breath and hot on his lips. He has to do this, before he loses his nerve.

His grip tightens on Sylvain’s shirt before he kisses him.

He can push him away for all he cares. It’s selfish, but he needs this. This, the only thing he’s ever wanted. The only thing that got him through Glenn’s death. 

Sylvain freezes against him, before he actually  _ whines _ , and kisses back. It’s hard, needy. Like he’s drowning and  _ Felix  _ is air, rather than the other way around. 

Hands find their way into the small of his back, pulling him closer. The other goes to his hair, messing up his bun. For the life of him, Felix can’t make himself care. He throws his own around Sylvain’s neck.

They stay like that, lips pressed together, biting and pleading.

It’s Sylvain who pulls away first. He’s crying, Felix notices. No, not crying. Sobbing.

“Please,” he says, looking away from Felix. “Please, don’t give me this.”

Felix is confused. He was expecting slurs and hatred, not... this. “Give you what?” he asks, trying to reach for him.    


Sylvain turns away.

“Hope,” he says with a sob. “Hope that this can be real, that my life can be anything other than the ugly lie I’m forced to live. Be anything but this-this suffocation! Please,” he begs, shoulders shaking. “Please don’t give me hope.”

Suddenly, it all makes sense. Every cruel name, every slur. Every- “Wait, you mean you’re-”

“Don’t say it, please,” he begs. “Please. If my parents ever found out...” he gasps for air, still not looking at him. “You know, sometimes I really do think Miklan was the lucky one.” Sylvain lets out an empty laugh, it hurts to hear.

He doesn’t know what to say, this knew knowledge reshaping the images in his mind. Every sleepover, every lingering touch as a teenager. Every time he caught Sylvain watching him. The reason he threw himself off that fucking bridge.

“Fuck them,” he finds himself saying, before he even realizes it.. 

“W-what?” Sylvain asks, turning back a little. His eyes are puffy and red, face flushed and wet with tears. It could be a good look on him, if it wasn’t from absolute heartbreak.

“Fuck them,” he repeats, more strongly this time. “Why let them ruin everything you’ve ever had? Your future? Why let them control you?”

“Felix-”

“Fuck. Them.” He grabs Sylvain’s arm. “Do you want this?” he snaps. “Your family aside, your future, everything in the entire goddamn world aside. Do you want this? Want me, as badly as I have  _ always _ wanted you?”

“Yes,” Sylvain says without thinking, like it’s the only thing he’s ever thought about.

“Then have it.” It’s cheesy, but he can’t think of what else to say. Sylvain is going to respond, going to stop this before he even has a chance to decide if he really wants it.

Felix silences him with another kiss. He pushes Sylvain back against his bed. “Tell me to stop and I will,” he says, climbing over him to straddle his lap. “Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me to never speak to you again, and I’ll listen. I’ll disappear. I won’t tell anybody and you’ll never hear from me again. But I need to hear you say it.”

Sylvain doesn’t say it, he lets Felix kiss him, drag his hands along his abdomen. He holds onto Felix’s hair, whining and groaning and making noises that Felix only dreamed he’d be able to hear. It’s everything he’s ever wanted. Maybe everything he touches doesn’t turn to ash. Maybe he just needs a chance to see it through.

He’s found his shore, an escape from the storm around him that he isn’t sure has let up since the day Glenn died. 

He kisses Sylvain like he’s his life line, because he probably is.

They don’t get further than kissing. They may have, had Caspar not barged into “make sure Sylvain is okay”. Felix is on top of him, their shirts discarded. He’s tracing the lines of his tattoos, trying to ignore the feeling of what he suspects is scarred skin beneath them. He wonders what his parents thought.

Caspar goes bright red, and stutters out an apology before closing the door. Sylvain laughs. It sounds like angels singing. Fuck, Felix missed that sound.

“Serves him right, the amount of times I’ve accidentally walked in on  _ him. _ ”

They lay there, after, both reeling. Felix’s head resting over Sylvain’s heart, listening to the steady beat that could so easily be gone. Buried in the dirt, just like his brother. They stay like that for hours.

“When did you know?” he eventually asks.

“In general, or that it was you?” Sylvain replies.

“Both.”

“Thirteen, and not long after Glenn died.” He answers both questions in order.

“Seven years,” Felix says, breathless. “You’ve been hiding this for seven years.”

He feels Sylvain shrug. “Some people know. Most of my friends. But it isn’t common knowledge.”

“Have you ever, you know?” He can’t bring himself to say sex. 

Sylvain understands anyways. “Probably more than you have. With people I didn’t know the name of, older than both of us combined.”

“That’s fucked up,” Felix replies, honestly a little horrified at the thought. Sylvain, barely legal age, vulnerable and scared, being used and manipulated. 

“Yeah,” he feels him breathe deeply. “I think I was sixteen, the first time.”

Felix sits up, stares down at him. “You-”

“Yeah.”

“Sixteen-”

“Yeah.”

“And they-”

Breathless, guilty. “Yeah. I let them-”

“No,” Felix cuts him off. “You were a kid. Whether or not you ‘let’ them is fucking irrelevant. Good people don’t fuck children.”

“I wasn’t a child,” he argues, “and they probably thought I was older-”

“I don’t care,” Felix replied. “They should have known better. That isn’t your fault. You were young, vulnerable. You’re  _ still _ young and vulnerable.”

“I’m older than you,” he counters.

“Yes,” Felix replies, settling down again. “But I’m much less vulnerable.” He traces the feeling of scars along Sylvain’s arms. 

He shudders. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mercedes: Leave Sylvain alone.  
Felix: Okay but I'm gay and I literally can't do that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I have a migraine, so rip this editing.
> 
> Its also been brought to my attention that I haven't described what they look like, so there's some of that here. I'm gonna go die now.
> 
> Edit: yes, there will be more to this series.

“So,” Felix asks the next morning, pulling his grey undershirt over his head. “What now?”

They’d spent the night together, just talking. Sylvain told him of Mercedes, and how they became friends. Of Dorothea and Caspar, their relationships with Petra and Linhardt. How he had walked in on his roommate so. many. times. 

_ “Please just text me next time you plan on fucking in our dormroom!” _

Felix told him about home. About coming out to Ingrid and Dimitri, how he hasn’t explicitly told his dad, but he’s pretty sure he knows. How he graduated high school and even though he’s at university now, he still isn’t sure what he wants to do. 

Eventually, Felix falls asleep on his chest. He isn’t really sure who passes out first, just that the emotional weight of the conversation has exhausted him.

Now Sylvain, who is trying his best not to admire the  _ very _ attractive torso in front of him, almost misses the question entirely. It takes a moment for his brain to process it.

_ What now? _ the million dollar question. Honestly, he isn’t sure of that himself.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. He’s still sitting in his bed, wearing his Charmander pajamas and wrapped up in blankets. Moving takes more energy than he really has to give at the moment. All his focus in on Felix, and trying not to lose his shit because Felix  _ knows. _ Felix is gay and likes him and knows he likes him back and everything is going to blow up and go to hell. Sylvain isn’t sure whether it would be worth it or not. He wants this, wants it more than anything he can ever remember wanting, aside from maybe wanting to die.

Felix is watching him, taking in his expression. He looks attractive in his tight grey shirt and jeans. “You’re not going to, you know,” asks eventually, and Sylvain does not, in fact, know.

“Going to what?” he asks. Felix has never been one to dance around a subject, always the blunt one. It’s odd that he isn’t saying what he’s thinking.

Felix looks like he’s trying to find words. Eventually he settles on, “Hurt yourself, or something?” the question sounds wrong, coming from him. It’s awkward, and hesitant. The latter half higher pitched than it needs to be. Like he’s afraid of asking the wrong thing, walking on eggshells.

The same question will probably be asked several times over the next few hours, as he sees his friends. He has no doubt they’ve all heard he was making out with his childhood friend by now.

“No,” he replies. “No, you don’t have to worry about that. It’s been a long time.” Well, not  _ that _ long, but Felix doesn't need to know about that.

Felix doesn't look convinced. “Didn’t you literally drink yourself into the hospital last week?”

He figures Mercedes told him, and wishes he could be mad at her. But he can't. Even if he tried to be angry, he knows she’d look at him with that look of sadness and say  _ “I was worried.” _ Which in all honesty, she probably had a right to be. Good God, this entire situation is so fucked.

“In my defense,” Sylvain starts, “that’s about how much alcohol it takes to have sex with women.” It probably isn't the best thing to say, definitely isn’t a good excuse, but who cares? He vaguely remembers a girl from that night, but that’s about it.

Felix blinks at him. He opens his mouth, before closing it again. “Yeah, okay, nope. Not touching that.” He just shakes his head and slips on his blue flannel shirt, unbuttoned, of course, before sitting on the bed to tie his shoes (blue vans, he notes).

Sylvain is still trying  _ very  _ hard not to stare. God, he’s the worst. If his parents knew, they’d probably kill him. They’d disown him, maybe actually, literally, kill him.

But he remembers what Felix said.

_ Fuck them. _

_ Why let them ruin everything you’ve ever had? Your future? Why let them control you? _

“Felix?” Sylvain asks, apprehensively. His heart is pounding so quickly

He looks up, one shoe on. “What?” It’s harsh, although he’s long since been able to see behind Felix’s bite. Even now. Its just his way of speaking. It was probably a miracle that he’d been so open the night before, a sign of his honest desperation perhaps. Whatever it was, it was the reason Sylvain hadn’t turned him away, had let himself be vulnerable too.

He bites his lip, and picks at the skin around his wrist. He’d mostly broken the habit since getting his tattoos (a winding white dragon surrounded by lilies), but it seemed to come back in his worst moments of anxiety. Such as now. “You asked me ‘what now’," he starts, "but what is it you want?” asking the question is a slippery slope. It’ll be too easy to let himself fall into whatever words Felix says. There’s no good choice here, no outcome that won’t end with his fragile heart in pieces. Either give in, let himself have this, and all the consequences that come along with that, or don’t. Let himself keep living a lie.

Felix freezes, looking away.

“I’m honestly not sure either,” he answers. He takes a deep breath before looking back at him, “but I know I don't want this to be the end.”

They let silence fall between them. It isn’t awkward per say, but it isn’t comfortable either. They’re both too busy within their own heads to speak to each other.

Sylvain is scared. Terrified really. This path can’t end well.

But he  _ wants _ it. Wants this life being held in front of him, if only he has the strength to reach out and take it. Desperately wants to hold Felix, to kiss him and touch him. To hear him gasp and moan his name.

“I think,” he says, “I think I want that too.”

Felix looks at him, desperation barely concealed within him. An alarm goes off on his phone, calling his attention away. He checks it. “I have class in a half hour,” he tells Sylvain, somehow regretfully. 

Sylvain nods, understanding. He has class himself, but not for another couple hours.

“Maybe we can grab coffee after? And talk?” Felix asks.

His throat is dry. He swallows passed the lump in it. “It’s a date.”

Felix rolls his eyes, but Sylvain can’t help but notice the barely concealed smile.

“Felix?” he asks before the other can leave.

Felix looks to him, eyebrows raised in question. 

“You’re not going to tell them, are you?” His voice has an edge to it. Barely contained fear.

“Tell them?” Felix asks, confused. It takes a moment before he realizes what Sylvain is talking about. “You mean Ingrid and Dimiitri?”

Sylvain nods. 

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he answers, leaning back against the wall he’s standing next to. “Frankly they can both learn to mind their own fucking business. And I’ll tell them as much when they ask where I was last night.”

Sylvain gives him a short nod, still nervous.

Felix sighs, and walks back over. “Hey,” he says, pulling Sylvain’s attention. He presses a soft kiss into his lips. “I’ll text you when I’m finished.”

He melts into the feeling, the reassurance.

Felix leaves, and Sylvain finds that for once, he doesn’t regret kissing a man. Doesn’t feel guilty for being gay.

Maybe this can all turn out okay.


End file.
